


The Echoing Green

by havisham



Category: Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Multi, Trauma, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 11:52:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The seasons change, the children grow up, and the world awaits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Echoing Green

**I.**

The air was heavy with the scent of flowers, the stems of roses drooped under the weight of their petals, all crimsons, whites, and pinks. The sun had burned away the early morning mist and it grew too hot to do anything more than to lie on the blanket and watch the bits of blue sky appear and disappear through the shifting canopy of trees. Colin watched a honeybee land delicately on the rim of his tea-cup and then swiftly topple in. It emerged again and buzzed away, hoping, perhaps, that no one had witnessed its false step. 

He closed his eyes again, and felt Mary’s fingers drag through his hair, as if she was petting a cat. Sometimes the book she was reading would dip too low and bump against his head. When he ventured a complaint, he was serenely ignored. 

Dickon sat near, talking quietly to the fawn he had adopted this summer, when she had appeared, motherless and with a broken limb and nearly dead, close to his door. Her leg was in splint now, and she delicately nibbled the lettuce leaves Dickon offered her, the leftovers from their luncheon. 

When Mary’s book bumped rudely against his skull yet _again_ (what could she be reading that was so terribly hard?) Colin got up with a sigh and eyed Dickon speculatively. The eldest of them, Dickon was coming into manhood early -- but he was not there yet, with his awkward limbs and strong sprouts of hair, and had the look of Pan rather than Puck now. In the heat, he had taken his cap off, and his rust-colored curls were in disarray.The fawn now nibbled on his fingers and he laughed and pulled his hand away, and looked to see Colin watching. A warm flush of color spread across his cheeks, and Colin felt a corresponding flush on his own face. 

His collar, already loosened, still felt too tight. 

“Mary,” Colin said, his voice lazy and slightly thick, “tell Dickon to play something for us.” 

Mary hummed and did not answer. She turned another page in her book. 

“What shall I play?” Dickon’s eyes were the warmest brown Colin knew, alive and sparkling, like water running through a brook. 

“Something we can dance to,” Colin said, and Mary put her book down (at last) and agreed. After he and Mary had done an awkward waltz, they pulled Dickon up, ignoring his protests and the snuffling of the fawn. It was only fair that he should dance, and so, arm in arm, they formed a circle and began to spin. Faster, and faster, how else could three people dance together?

The sunlight was warm and stained his blurred vision into golds and greens, and pinks and browns of skin. Mary laughed, bright and clear, and Dickon caught him. 

 

Heaven, this was heaven. 

 

 **II.**

Colin looked up from his microscope and discovered that he was totally alone in the laboratory. It was just as well -- it was summertime and his mind had began to wander, away from his observations and back to Mistlethwaite. He left his work behind and went over to the window. 

Outside, the sun shone down brightly, and the garden hummed with life. It was not _his_ garden, of course, but but still, the sight of it, the smell through the open window was intoxicating. It was hotter here than it had been in Yorkshire, even in August, and Colin found himself missing both Mary and Dickon; he thought of about dancing with Mary and racing with Dickon, and racing with Mary and dancing with Dickon.

Smith raced in to the lab and began to gather his things. His hands were shaking, his books dropped to the floor. Smith swooped down to retrieve them, and Colin came upon him. 

“What’s happening? Where is everyone?” Colin’s voice was sharper than he had intended it to be, the calmness of the afternoon had shattered. 

Smith sprang up, breathless. “Haven’t you heard? We’ve declared war on Germany.” 

“Oh,” Colin said. This was momentuous, there did not seem to be more to say. 

 

**III.**

It was a shock to come back to Mistlethwaite and find it a den of activity. The workmen and nurses rushed past him, none of them knew who he was. It was Mary’s doing, of course. 

She was a part of Mistlethwaite as much was it was a part of her; it was unthinkable that she should leave -- but even with that, she could not ignore the workings of the world around her. The changes. She would come down from London with thick white packets tied with brown string, the writing of suffragettes. She hid them in Colin’s books when he wasn’t looking, and he would send them back with peevish notes saying that she already told him what to think and do, and mentally duck at the thought of her righteous fury coming down to him. 

The war had already started by then, and he was impatient to grow old enough to be of some use. Mary had the same impulse, Colin knew, because of her letters, which radiated both furious thought and much frustration. She could not exactly become a VAD -- she grew sick at the sight of blood, though she was largely unfazed by pain, as such. But she did not want to spend the war knitting balaclavas and socks -- her knitting was atrocious, appropriate only for men with two heads each or no heels at all. 

But I must do _something_ , she wrote to Colin. 

It was nineteen-sixteen, and they were still untouched by war, they all felt as if they should do something. You will think of something, he wrote back, not unsympathetically. But, distracted, certainly. By his own training, his own expectations, his own burgeoning life away from Mistlethwaite, away from Mary.

She did not write back to him for a long time afterward. 

It was autumn before he returned to Mistlethwaite to find it utterly changed. The vast green lawns had been dug up to make room for vegetable plots, and the house itself turned into a hospital, albeit one without patients, as of yet. Mary and his father had decamped to the gatehouse, a small copy of the main house, built from the same stone. Colin was given the room with a gabled window that looked upon the main house, and he would often look out to it with expressions of both bewilderment and dismay. 

He had been anxious for Mary and his father to see him in his new uniform, to approve of what he had done and what he was about to do. (It was just his bit, for the war.) He had grown far taller than anyone expected him to be, and his back was straight as a ruler. His black hair fell in heavy locks into his eyes no matter what he did with it. His face, which had been so pinched and pale in childhood, had become almost handsome in the meantime. 

His eyes, large and agate gray and with thick black lashes, were the same as ever. They caused him no end of trouble. They were far too pretty, and seemed to promise people such things that he had no idea of. 

 

After his first term at university, Colin had come back home with a mustache he had been terribly proud of, signifying as it did adulthood and his newly-won sophistication. His father had been amused, but Mary had teased him so badly over that dead rodent on his face that he remained resolutely clean-shaven to this day.

All the changes aside, it was difficult to be back. Colin could ignore the sadness in his father’s eye as he gently interrogated Colin about his future plans, true. But Mary was not so easily ignored, and the cause of her discontent, obscure. They argued, as they had not done in years, savage fights then left them both white and shaking. 

They were always too much alike.

On the last day, they had another blazing row about -- Colin wasn’t sure what. About everything and nothing, all at once. 

“Go on, leave us again, _we don’t want you_ ,” she spat out, her face twisted in fury. And he had hissed back that she didn’t need him, apparently, his house had been quite enough. She left the room without another word and slammed the door behind her. 

It wasn’t fair! He left the gatehouse, and walked aimlessly and ended up at the gravel walk in front of the main house. But he realized, sharply, that he couldn’t intrude there, not anymore. It wasn’t his, anymore. 

He turned and took off, running. His steps led him, as it always did, back to the garden. Leaves crunched under his boots, and he paced up and down the garden, suddenly unsure of what to do. The flower beds had already been covered with mulch, and someone, Mary and the new gardener, hired after old Ben’s passing, had taken the time to deadhead them. 

He sat on the bench with his arms crossed and scowled fiercely at the world. The world remained wholly indifferent to his anguish, the sun shone just as brightly as it had done before. He heard a step on the flagstones, too heavy to be Mary’s, too light to be his father’s. Strangers, even here? He bit off a harsh greeting and looked up.

It was not a stranger at all, but Dickon, who looked very smart in his uniform. He too had changed, had grown tall and rangy, and was all strength and joy. His curly red hair, the envy of his sisters, was covered by his cap. His tanned face was open and fair, his mouth frank and tender. Dickon had always been a fair lad.

He had no animals about him, and he looked oddly incomplete without a bird on his shoulder, or a little furry head peeking out from his pocket. Colin bounded off his seat and came to him, too distressed for niceties, such as -- _hello Sowerby, how are the other Sowerbys? Lovely day, isn’t it?_

And it was a lovely day, as crisp and as clear as any, an autumn day that dug in sharply into one’s memory. Leaves drifted down slowly to the ground, one caught itself on the band of Colin’s hat. He picked it out and twirled it idly with his long fingers and examined Dickon. 

“You are coming with me?” he said, letting the leaf go, and catching Dickon’s hand. He squeezed it too, for good measure. Dickon’s eyes widened, as if he had not considered doing otherwise. Of course, he said, after a while. Colin let go of his hand, reluctantly. 

“Come on then,” Colin said, impatiently, as if Dickon had kept him waiting. They were to have dinner at the house. Mary appeared before the dinner gong, her eyes rimmed red. She was charming through the entire evening, her humor sweeter, now, than sharp. At the end of the night, she even went as far to wish them both well, and gave them each a kiss on their cheek. 

The next morning, Colin and Dickon took the first train south, Colin’s head resting on Dickon’s shoulder as they left Mistlethwaite far behind. 

 

**IV.**

In the trenches, Dickon made peace with even the rats. 

They seemed not be so thick on the ground where Colin and he slept as they were in other places in the trench, though that might have something to do with the cat that had appeared, mysteriously one night, to take up residence on the foot of Dickon’s cot. She was white and ginger striped and refused to answer to any name the men would give her, batting them away with grand disdain. It was only Dickon’s hand did she suffer to be touched. 

“That old fleabag,” Colin said sourly, coming in, as she streaked by his legs. Overhead, a few stray pigeons cooed at him reproachfully, fluttering their bandaged wings. Later, when Dickon shaved his day-old beard, Colin mused that, if they lived a few centuries earlier, Dickon would have certainly been a monk. A brown-robed Franciscan, sparrows alighting on his shoulder. 

“And tha’d be -- a knight?” Dickon’s hands were steady and warm and Colin had learned to hold very still, even when their dugout rocked by the impact of nearby shell. But still he could not help but screw up his face a little. 

“No, I think I would have been dead long before Lady Mary could come to rescue me,” he said gravely, and Dickon frowned, his eyes troubled.

*****

“Did you know that they once shot a cat for treason?” Colin said once, half-wistfully. Someone, or something, hissed at him and the subject was dropped.

 

**V.**

Perhaps it should not have been such a _great_ surprise that Dickon was so very good at killing. Colin watched him go about his business with quiet fascination -- how every shot was accurate, all of his steps, charmed. 

Dickon was wasted on Colin, of course, he could be a great hero elsewhere, but perhaps Colin said to him in a quiet aside, in his careful Yorkshire, some of Dickon’s luck could rub off on him. 

Dickon rubbed off the dirt on his cheek and looked thoughtful. “I’ll take care of thee.” 

“Best y’do,” Colin said, feeling newly cheerful, though they both knew that such promises did no good here. 

**VI.**

Colin couldn’t stop shivering. It had been raining for days now, steady and inexorable, and the mud was waist-deep in some places, churned up to reveal bits of bone and cloth, dead flesh melted to the stinking earth. He had led a raid the night before, and had come back, alive, but with fewer men than before. He remembered their names: Thomas, Nash, Colburn. There were letters he would have to write. 

Word came down the line that tomorrow they would make yet another trek across No Man’s Land, the reasons for which had dissolved like so much tissue paper under a heavy rain. 

The night was filthy cold. His teeth rattled, in tune with with pounding of the guns. 

It echoed in his head, a monstrous death-rattle, and soon he was curled up in a corner, and even the rats left him alone. I’m a coward, he thought wretchedly. I don’t want to go out there, and die in that mud. I’m finished.

He heard someone come in, and did not look up. He touched Colin’s cheek and sat down beside him. It was Dickon, of course, and he held Colin like he was a dying animal, whispering comforting nonsense into his ear, things that had no language of its own, but could be understood exactly. Colin leaned into Dickon’s arms and closed his eyes. 

There was a momentary lull outside, all the more dangerous for all that, and Colin would do anything to have a living noise rather than a dead quiet. So he spoke, with a voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve proved true to my name.” 

Dickon said, “Shush.” And he threaded his fingers through Colin’s dirty hair, meaning, perhaps to soothe him, but only succeeded in making Colin feel like his nerves stand on end. He couldn’t lie still, he couldn’t be content with just this. 

He felt Dickon’s finger press gently at the back of his neck. Colin’s heartbeat was so loud to his own ears, his breathing harsh. Still, he felt it, the subtle influence that Dickon exerted. Stay calm. Stay sane. _Stay._

Dickon was made to be obeyed, and was Colin not an animal too? 

No time for thinking now, no time to hesitate. He turned to look at Dickon, who looked back at him, his face carefully blank. He leaned forward and bumped his lips against Dickon’s, chapped and roughed though they were, and their breath soured and coming in white puffs against the dark. Dickon gave a quick indrawn breath, but did not pull away. Instead, he touched Colin’s face, gently. His eyes were very bright. 

Colin had a flash of guilt, but he squashed it down without mercy. 

He pressed another kiss on Dickon’s jaw, and the tender place where his grimy collar rubbed at his neck. Dickon gave a sharp sigh, as if in pain. 

“Dickon,” Colin said, in quiet desperation, “you aren’t angry--?” 

Dickon pulled him close, his strong and clever fingers wiggling into Colin’s uniform, until he touched hot skin. “Tha hast plenty o’ pluck, sir...” 

“Don’t call me sir now,” Colin said, earnestly, which earned him a half-lidded smile, too affectionate to be cynical, too kind to be teasing. But all the same, Dickon was laughing at him, and Colin sought, with equal earnestness, to transform laughter into gasps, panting, moans. 

“Not so loud,” he said, his voice catching at his throat as Dickon dipped down his head to nuzzle at the white patch of skin below his stomach, and pushing down, his mouth, his tongue making a trail downwards until Colin was forced to eat his own words, to stuff them back into his mouth, his teeth biting into the palm of his hand.

*****

It wasn’t a blur, what happened afterwards. The call came, and everything was astonishingly distinct and clear. The morning was grey but dry, with a stiff wind coming from the north, carrying with it a smell of decay. The bullets snapped at him as he went over the top. Immediately his men began to falter, to fall. He knew that, but his mind was calm, and he went forward. His last conscious thought was -- _oh Lord, let me be brave!_

And that was before a blow like a giant fist closed over him.

*****

Hours later, he was still alive. Oh, it was awful that he should be alive. He had fallen far and deep into the earth. Into a shell-crater full of water. His vision was stained dark red. He waited for what seemed a very long time, under the sky that turned darker and darker. There was no more fear. He felt emptied out, and waited patiently to die.

The night went on, and still he remained alive. Stubbornly so. 

Someone was calling his name. Not Lieutenant Craven. His name. Colin, Colin, Colin! He was dead, surely, because there was Dickon, crawling down to his grave. Dickon reached for him and Colin raised his hand. Except it didn’t seem to be there anymore. 

 

Ah, well. 

 

**VII.**

This was the garden at night; the hooting of a distant owl, the wind played through the trees, and moonlight on the crushed gravel, brightening the path ahead. The shadows deepened in the garden, still bare from winter. The patches of darkness made strange the commonplace. The crocuses and snowdrops and daffodils were still little green shoots poking out cautiously out from the soil. They slept quietly enough dreaming of their time in the sun. 

With a soft rustle of silk, Mary’s hood slipped from her head, exposing her fair hair to the night air. Her sharp white face peered anxiously through the gloom until she heard a chuckle behind her. 

“Mistress Mary, Quite Contrary, how does your garden grow?” 

“Quite well, thank you,” she said distractedly. “Have the guests gone?” 

“Yes, certainly, what else could they do when their hostess disappeared at the stroke of midnight? They thought you had been turned back into a pumpkin, you know.” He had a bottle of champagne tucked under his black sling, and held out three flutes out for her. 

Quietly, he said, “Careful! I’m not as handy as I used to be.” 

Mary took them with a little weary laugh. “That joke won’t grow old any time soon, I expect.” 

There was a pause as she extracted the champagne bottle from his sling. She popped the cork with his pocketknife, and it bounced up and disappeared behind a bush. They poured out drinks for three, and each took one, and left the third behind. 

It had been a very trying year since Mistlethwaite had been returned to them, and an extremely stressful six months since Colin had returned from his long sojourn. And a short while after, Dickon did too, with a chest full of medals. Neither of them talked about what had happened, not to Mary, nor, she suspected, to each other. 

Quiet settled between them, full of things left unsaid. They waited. Colin picked out a petal that had caught on Mary’s dress. 

“You mustn’t worry about us,” he said, his voice quiet. 

She turned to him quickly and said, “Of course I must! What do you think I’ve done for the last few years? Worry! And now, you’ve both come back alive and -- mostly well. And I still worry. That you won’t be happy here. That it won’t be the same as it was before.” 

She frowned and shook her head, suddenly cross. “And then I think how stupid I’m being! Of course it won’t be the same. It can’t be.”

He gave her a crooked grin. “It is different, but not necessarily terrible.”

The door of the garden opened and closed. Dickon had arrived, dressed still in his working clothes, his shirtsleeves rolled up. He had had time to give his face and hands a wash, but he looked weary from the day’s work, though now both the mare and her foal were safely resting in the stables. 

“Dickon,” Colin and Mary said together, and everything seemed to shift and settle back into its back, familiar from a half-lifetime’s worth of habit. They could shed a little weight -- Mary’s pearls clicked together, Colin’s dinner-jacket lost its collar, and Dickon’s cap disappeared. Dickon’s share of the champagne was swiftly swallowed, and as he had not had supper yet, it went to his head. Colin and Mary had no such excuses. 

Colin reached out to catch his hand and Mary leaned up to kiss him. Dickon blushed to the roots of his dark hair. It was always the same, no matter how often they did this. He put his hand around Mary’s waist and looked up to Colin who grinned and kissed Mary's neck.

 

It was spring and they were home at last.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my betas, Aliana, Glymr, and Elleth. ♥


End file.
